“Honey, I lied to you about damned near everything,” he groaned. “But I didn’t lie to you about this,” he added just before he covered her mouth with his own.
Celia couldn’t respond immediately. She still had that odd, disconcerting feeling that the man holding her now wasn’t the same man she’d fallen so hard for during the past week.
As though sensing her confusion, Reed lifted his head and looked down at her. Their eyes locked. His held a plea that Celia couldn’t misinterpret.
Suddenly reassured, she rose onto her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.
His arms closed around her so tightly she could hardly breathe. She didn’t care. This was Reed. Whatever his job, whoever he was, she loved him.
That was the only thing that hadn’t changed during this long, terrifying night.
Someone pounded on the outer door. “Reed? Come on, let’s go.”
In response to Kyle’s summons, Reed lifted his head. “We’ll talk later,” he promised. “And I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
Celia nodded and stepped away from him, moving dreamily toward the door.
Reed detained her with a hand on her shoulder. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked with quiet humor. Her clean T-shirt dangled from his hand.
Celia blushed and reached for it. She tugged it hastily over her head.
Reed was smiling at her when she emerged from the neckline of the bright red shirt.
For the first time in hours, she was able to smile back.
When they reached the hospital, Celia insisted on checking on Damien before she allowed anyone to look at her head. Reed protested at first, a deep frown creasing his forehead, that familiar look of jealousy squaring his jaw.
“Reed,” Celia said, resting her hand on his arm. “He’s my friend. And he was hurt trying to protect me. I have to know he’s all right.”
Reed hesitated, then exhaled and nodded. “I understand.”
She smiled. “I knew you would.”
Damien was lying in a hospital bed, heroically pale and bandaged, being hovered over by his fiercely loyal secretary, Maris, and Enrique Torres and his flustered wife, both looking as though they’d dressed hastily. Mindi Kellogg, who was looking less cheerleaderish than usual, stood in a corner of the room and wrung her hands. Probably, Celia thought somewhat cattily, trying to think of some way to involve Damien’s visitors in cheerfully organized hospital games. Gurney races? Bandage rolling?
A nurse bustled around the room, trying to keep some kind of control over the visitors. She didn’t look pleased to see three more walk in. She probably wasn’t used to so much activity at this hour in the morning, Celia thought. Celia could certainly sympathize.
With a determined smile, she approached the bed while Reed and Kyle lingered by the door. “Look at you,” she said, shaking a finger at Damien. “I thought I’d find you on the verge of death and instead, you’re lying here like a sultan, basking in all this attention.”
Damien gave her a charmingly crooked grin. “Can I help it if I’m just naturally hero material?”
She groaned. “Oh, Lord, now you really have a line to use on the ladies, don’t you? Not to mention a picturesque scar to show off to them.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Think it’ll work?”
“It probably will,” she admitted.
He glanced toward the doorway, then back at her, his smile still in place, but a bit strained now. “I don’t suppose there’s any need for me to waste the line on you.”
“No,” she answered seriously. “You don’t need to use lines on me, Damien. I already know you’re a hero. You were hurt trying to protect me. I don’t know how to thank you for that.”
For the first time since she’d known him, Damien flushed. “Aww,” he muttered. “It was nothing. Are you okay, Celia? That’s a mean-looking lump on your head.”
“It’s just a scratch,” she assured him, patting his hand. “What about you? Are you in much pain?”
He shook his head, though the faint lines around his mouth belied the denial. “No sweat,” he assured her. “The
bullet just grazed my shoulder. Some soft tissue damage, but nothing permanent. The doctors assure me I’ll be back in top form within a few weeks.”